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The Testament of 
William Win dune 



J. H. Wallis 



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COPQUGHT DEPOSm 



THE TESTAMENT OF WILLIAM WINDUNE 



The Testament of 
William Win dune 

and Other Poems 



by 

T. H. Wallis 




New Haven: Yale University Press 

London: Humphrey Milford 

Oxford University Press 

MDCCCCXVI 






Copyright, 1916 
BY Yale University Press 



First published, September, 1916 




OCT 23 1916 



S)CI,A44529G 



DEDICATION: 



TO MY WIFE. 

Dear love, I write but silly songs ; 

Our daily bread I cannot earn ; 
To grub amid the money-throngs 

My restless spirit will not learn. 

Dear love, I dream but empty dreams ; 

My gold is hung on fairy trees 
Or in that West where Phoebus gleams 

On apples of Hesperides. 

Yet in thy need each song shall be 
A naked sword against the press ; 

Each dream a shield to shelter thee 
In token of my stedfastness. 



CONTENTS. 








PAGE 


Dedication : To my Wife ..... v 


The Testament of William Windune 






1 


Wind Overhead 






41 


My Lady's Lips 










44 


A Precautionary Measure 










45 


Feverish Man . 










47 


Impartial 










49 


Yale Revisited . 










51 


In an old May 










53 


A Summer Day 










54 


Tempus Omnia Vincit 










56 


Acceptable in His Sight 










57 


On the Hillside 










58 


Lux Exstincta . 










59 


Mother's Song 










61 


A Ballad of John Davidson 










62 


Winter . 










67 


Ode to Gaea . 










69 



The Testament of William Windune 

Being a Poem in which 
Windune disposeth of his worldly- 
Goods, and maketh Mention and Disposition 
of divers other Matters, 
all this being modelled after 

The Greater Testament of Francois Villon 



THE TESTAMENT OF WILLIAM WINDUNE. 

INTRODUCTION. 
Here Windune speaketh of his Purpose, 

Here in my thirty-second year, 

The ways of fate considering, 
Knowing how death is ever near. 

How youth and life are on the wing 

And ever faster hurrying 
As if on some mad frolic bent, 

I give my pen commissioning 
To write a will and testament. 

Pen, we have been good friends enough; 

The tie that binds us two is strong! 
Your point has writ some startling stuff 

And wrought its share of right and wrong. 

This bodes to be no lover's song. 
But bear with me till it be done ; 

If I can see ahead so long 
'Twill be a strange and mongrel one. 

The dictionary I entreat 

To take its place beside my hand; 
It holds a goodly store of meat 

If one can seize and understand. 

Thence a rich banquet for the grand 
A master's touch could conjure forth, 

But what will come at my command 
May be of very doubtful worth. 

[1] 



TESTAMENT OF WILLIAM WINDUNE 



For I am very modest, I 

Have never claimed a master's touch; 
My poor, lame verse would hardly try 

To stand without some kind of crutch. 

And so I do not hope for much, 
But only hope I may present 

My whimsicalities and such. 
Also, a binding testament. 

Now will I for a moment tell 

Of him, my prototype, who knew 
This transitory world so well 

His ancient verse to me and you 

Is just as vital and as new 
As any of the present time. 

Would we had one like him to do 
Some rough, hard work for modern rime! 

Here followeth the Ballade concerning Frangois 
Montcorbier, surnamed Villon. 



BALLADE OF FRANQOIS VILLON. 

After the Manner of his own Ballad of Things known 
and unknown as translated into English by John 
Payne. 

The lack of bread he knew full well. 
The empty glass, the cupboard bare. 

Also the prison's wretched cell. 
Its vermin foul and meagre fare; 

[2] 



TESTAMENT OF WILLIAM WINDUNE 



He knew too well the gallows where 
Death almost claimed him for its own, 

Where friends of his blew in the air — 
He knew all save himself alone. 

He knew the power of beauty's spell; 

He knew true love of ladies fair; 
But more he knew of those who sell 

Lust's fleeting joys and fleshly ware; 

He knew the drunkard's bleak despair, 
The thief's chill fear, the outcast's groan, 

He knew a dead foe's glassy stare — 
He knew all save himself alone. 

From king and court to cockle-shell 
Of all the world he was aware; 

But most he used to think and tell 
How time brings all to disrepair, 
How youthful breasts and lips and hair 

By age are soiled and overgrown; 

He knew how death ends every care — 

He knew all save himself alone, 



U Envoi. 

You poets sour or debonair, 

I pray you tell if you have known 
One else of whom you could declare. 

He knew all save himself alone. 



[3 ] 



TESTAMENT OF WILLIAM WINDUNE 



Here Windune craveth Leave to introduce a 
Digression. 

Now, Reader, bear with me a time 

While that I write of him whose way 
Draws to the bitter, final climb 

And to the misty end of day; 

Of one so near I would not say 
(For father has he been to me) 

Save that it seems his story may 
Apply to all humanity. 

Now Windune writeth of his Uncle. 

My Uncle lies near death, beside 

A row of bottles small and great, 
For lack of which he'd soon have died, 

(Or would more likely live, some state.) 

His wasted body has the weight 
Dead bodies have, his voice that rung 

So clear can scarce articulate. 
His tongue is like a dead man's tongue. 

He wants me near him,* we were such 

Good friends and comrades, youth with age. 

But now I cannot help him much 
In this last fight he has to wage. 
Nor would I take the pilgrimage 

He has to take so soon, although 
With him by motor, rail or stage 

I ever have rejoiced to go. 

[4] 



TESTAMENT OF WILLIAM WINDUNE 



How can It be that he will die 

And lie forever starkly still 
And never greet me more, while I 

Am free to tread each field and hill 

Which he so loved and never will 
Once see again? All these will dim 

And my choked heart with anguish fill 
Because they were half made of him. 

Ye hills and vales of his estate, 

Ye fields that 'neath his guidance grew, 

Ye forests that the axe's weight 

Has scarcely touched to thin and hew. 
Will not a shiver tremble through 

Crags, slopes and valleys, wailing breath 

Shriek through the woods, fields weep In dew, 

When your old master yields to death? 

Nay, ye will smile beneath the sun, 

Or drip, as ever, with the rain; 
Ye will not care when he Is done 

Nor grieve ye shall not feel again 

His step In woodland or In plain; 
Ye care no more that he departs 

Than for the last year's crop of grain — 
But what of us, our broken hearts? 

If It be morn or afternoon 

He does not know nor care, he lies 

All day and night In semi-swoon 
With dullness In his pale blue eyes, 
The same that, ever kind and wise, 

[5] 



TESTAMENT OF WILLIAM WINDUNE 



Saw me come into being, then 

Watched every act and enterprise 
Until I reached the realm of men. 

How hard it is to realize 

That he the years have got at bay 
Once had two sweet, blue, baby eyes 

And every cunning baby way; 

Yea, he, nigh ninety years to-day, 
Once lay, all pink and warm, inside 

His tiny crib and crowed in play — 
A mother's joy, a father's pride. 

Hard, too, it is to comprehend 

That he who lies worn-out, supine, 
Once had the fire that youth can lend 

When life is fair and fresh and fine. 

His heart beat fast as thine or mine 
When his beloved he espied; 

What pride and joy almost divine 
He felt the day he claimed his bride! 

Now the old bride complains that she 

Can only hobble while there pass 
With jaunty step full springily 

The lusty lad and happy lass. 

No step of all the thoughtless mass 
Is quick as his, she oft has said; 

Then with bowed head she groans, "Alas!" — 
God pity her when he is dead ! 

O God, if any God there be, 

Relieve him of this grievous strain, 

[6] 



TESTAMENT OF WILLIAM WINDUNE 



O give him back to mine and me 

In strength and ruddy health again. 
Life filled him so in every vein 

That life seems an essential part 

Of that quick, curious, tireless brain, 

Of that great, loving, noble heart. 

Uncle, when you are dead and done 
And in the yellow, lifeless ground 

Lies what has loved us, every one. 
And what we loved beyond all bound, 
Although we think you nobly crowned 

With a great goodness, there remains — 
Aside from hopes and thoughts profound — 

But grains of dust with other grains. 

When we, whose love for you is such 
Our hearts are choked with woe of it, 

Have joined you where no tongue can touch 
Our molding minds with shafts of wit. 
Where never poignant grief can hit 

Hearts that once mourned but then will not, 
Your name, which by our love was lit, 

Will then be nearly quite forgot. 

If kings who ruled in pomp and fame 

Are now so far forgotten, men 
No longer even know the name 

Of him who shook the nations then. 

How can you hope to live again 
In thoughts of one long-distant mind, 

When all your claim to fame has been 
That you were always good and kind? 

[7] 



TESTAMENT OF WILLIAM WINDUNE 



The breathless centuries will roll 

Above you in your narrow cell 
And none will know that once a soul 

That loved the world exceeding well 

Lies where the thrifty hucksters dwell 
Or, haply, in the market-place 

Or where the argent asphodel 
Shows to the sun its timid face. 

Here Windune pauseth a Moment to say Farewell 
to some who may likely survive him. 

Perhaps this message will be read 

In those deep silences that fall 
About the precincts of the dead 

When something lies beneath its pall. 

If so, I ought to say to all 
Who may remain when I am through 

With all this noisy beck and call 
Some word of greeting and adieu. 

No fancied shadow waits for me. 

No nightmare of the realm of dreams 
From which one gains reality, 

Waked by the sunlight's golden beams. 

This Thing is Real ; not all our schemes 
Nor all our subtle modes of thought 

Can make of it a Thing which Seems 
Nor change the nature of that Nought. 

I press my calves and thighs and hips, 
My arms and back and neck and chest, 

[8] 



TESTAMENT OF WILLIAM WINDUNE 



My cheeks and forehead, chin and lips, 

By a cold panic-fear possessed; 

Beneath the warmth my hands attest 
The charnel bones I feel In place 

And glimpse, in thought, a grinning jest, 
A fleshless skull, beneath my face. 

So, since I must, I say farewell 

To earth and all its pleasant things. 

And, Ancient Mother, let me tell 
How much I loved your happenings, 
Your clowns and workers, thieves and kings, 

Your glaring scenes of great display, 
Your homely fireside comfortings. 

Your gracious night, your golden day. 

I say farewell, mine enemies. 

Such as survive me on The Day. 

(I know I have a host of these, 
And yet I somehow hope that they 
Will let Time's whisk-broom brush away 

Old memories of quarrels done. 

That I may shift from man to clay 

With malice from and toward none.) 

Friends, cover up my worthless corse 

And waste no time in fruitless tears; 
Most likely when I've spent my force 

I shall have had my share of years 

And said my say amid my peers 
And know the little joys of men. 

Weep not for me ; your hour, too, nears, 
And I shall not be weeping then. 

[9] 



TESTAMENT OF WILLIAM WINDUNE 



Dear children, whose gay laughter brings, 
Much more than Phoebus does, the morn, 

(And you who, 'neath Time's folded wings. 
May, as I write, be still unborn,) 
Think not of me, I pray, with scorn 

When death has left my weakness plain, 
Think rather how my heart has borne 

Such love for you it seemed like pain. 

Here Windune enter cth upon Matter of great 
Erudition. 

The stars In their unhuman skies 

Are hanging, fixed and frigid, whence 
They watch with white and listless eyes 

The vision of man's impotence. 

For what Is man who hurries hence 
'Mid tiny throbs of joys and tears 

To these whose awful consequence 
Endures of many million years? 

WTiat of this round of day and night 

In which the sun the stars doth slay, 
In which the moon doth put to flight 

The sun until another day? 

What does it mean or bode, I pray. 
Is there no goal, no ultimate. 

Will Time forever toss and play 
With worlds caught in the gin of Fate? 

What Is the use of all this life? 

Time toys with senseless force and dust, 

[ 10] 



TESTAMENT OF WILLIAM WINDUNE 



Transmutes them Into man and wife 

Or into hate or love or lust. 

Each, as ft is predestined, must 
Begin and flourish, lastly fall, 

So that we can but question, just 
What is the goal or good of all? 

Time toys with senseless force and dust 
And by his wondrous wand transmutes 

The same to baker's dough or crust 
Or lovely girls in linen suits, 
To chauffeurs who elude pursuits, 

To millionaires and motormen. 

To waving grains or luscious fruits — 

Then whirls ft all to dust again. 

There must be some delusion here. 

Our lives, if finfte, cannot be 
If there exfsts, as would appear, 

A temporal fnfinft}\* 

And yet, none could convince us we 
Are non-exfstent. Hence a press 

Of studfes fn philosophy 
Arise, in number numberless. 



*By mathematical calculation seventy^ a life's span, 
is no part of infinity, or seventy divided by infinity 



/70 \ 

equals notmng. I ^ — 0* ) 



[ 11 ] 



TESTAMENT OF WILLIAM WINDUNE 



Here followeth the Ballade of the true Reality, 



BALLADE OF THE TRUE REALITY. 

The Roman ladies sat and spun 

And gossiped in the knowing way 
That gentle dames have always done, 

And sewing circles do to-day. 

But they by time were swept away 
Where none can hear them more or see; 

And we shall last no more than they — 
What is the true reality? 

Through five informants we have one 

Coordinate report; we say 
Our minds have gained dominion 

Of suns and planets, air and clay. 

But changed is all as night from day 
To one with senses four or three. 

Who knows what six might not display— 
What is the true reality? 

A ship of many a thousand ton 
When sighted is a speck of gray; 

Each star, although a flaming sun, 
Seems but a dot of luminous ray, 
Less than a puny seed of hay 

Held overclosely to the £ye. 

What standard is there to portray 

What is the true reality? 

[ 12] 



TESTAMENT OF WILLIAM WINDUNE 



UEnvoi. 

Professors, can time make and slay 

An entity, can senses be. 
With space, delusion? Tell me, pray, 

What is the true reality? 

Here Windune continueth on Matter of great 
Erudition. 

The world is full of wonders, all 

And each Is wonderful to me. 
In kitchen-vessels on the wall, 

Hanging on hook or nail, I see 

Types of materiality, 
Reminders man and metals fall 

In the same class with bird and bee 
As crumbling and ephemeral. 

The world is full of wonders, none 

Is more than other wonder-worth; 
The marvel of the white-hot sun 

Is no more than the least of earth. 

A tree of many feet in girth 
In this Is as a grain of corn; 

We wonder at the primal birth: 
Whence was the least or greatest born ? 

Man In his selfish, finite style 

Seeks starts and ends in all, because 
He ends In such a little while; 

[ 13 ] 



TESTAMENT OF WILLIAM WINDUNE 



The universe to human laws 

He tries to twist; his self-applause 

Must tickle Fate whose talons bend 

Man with all else, who knows there was 

No start and ne'er will be an end. 

We see such varied forms of life, 

Such whirling matter thrown and thrust, 

Such changing and eternal strife 
Of crumbling dust with other dust, 
Yet under each deceptive crust 

Of mind and matter, man and sun. 
In force and atom bides, we trust, 

The essential and pervading one. 

Indeed, I think all men who pry- 
As man is able, half-aghast, 

In the Great Deep, must testify 
To one conclusion at the last: 
God is the present and the past, 

The future (without any goal)^ 
The atom small, the planet vast. 

The single life, the cosmic whole. 

If there be anything abstract 

We cannot ever hope to find 
Its nature, bound in thought and act 

By pentagons of sensuous mind. 

The mysteries that lurk behind 
Those flimsy walls that never bend 

To light the soul therein confined, 
Are mysteries unto the end. 

[ 14] 



TESTAMENT OF WILLIAM WINDUNE 



Truly, the mystery of things 

Must be our strongest comfort, for 
With all our dread imaginings 

We ne'er are sure what lies in store. 

Though man with piercing mind explore 
In nature's ways complex, involved, 

The One Great Secret, as before, 
Will ever be unknown, unsolved. 

Negroes and lower animals 

Give most disquieting offense 
To one whose mind despairing calls 

For proof of human permanence. 

Does man's imperial eminence 
Make him eternal? Where and why 

Can one divide with any sense 
Immortals from the beasts that die? 

"We have but faith, we cannot know," 

For all we know would point our doom. 
What we can grasp would go to show 

The fearful meaning of the tomb. 

One race that fills another's room 
Is all our minds can help us see. 

And faith is all that lights the gloom 
That overhangs our destiny. 

Yet is it not a privilege 

To dwell with such great company, 
Here on the old earth's whirling edge 

In sight of stars and nebulae? 

And, to be fair, what rights have we 

[15] 



TESTAMENT OF WILLIAM WINDUNE 



To lives of large, eternal scope? 
Are we not lucky just to be? 
And further — we can cling to hope. 

But I must stop my rambling prate 

And give my gentle readers rest; 
They'd rather far, I dare to state, 

That I at once begin to test. 

So, I shall leave where I think best 
Certain great grants of varied sort; 

And, first, the best and costliest 
To legatees of high import. 

Here IVindune beginneth to test. 

THE TESTS THAT WINDUNE MADE. 

Item, unto my Mother Earth 

I leave my body, not that she 
Suffers from such a present dearth 

That she has need of little me, 

But that my generosity 
Extends so far that I would pay 

At death what, as a life-lessee, 
I have enjoyed this many a day. 

My soul, If such a thing I have, 
I pray the great God take in care 

And let it not within the grave 
The fate my body suffers share. 

[ 16 ] 



TESTAMENT OF WILLIAM WINDUNE 



He gave my mind these things to bear: 
Self-consciousness and longing not 

To have that self destroyed, unfair 
'Twould be to leave that self to rot. 

These souls distinct and separate 
Cause all our petulance and fret; 

We should not rail at death and fate 
And be so mightily upset, 
If we, without these egos, met 

In one eternal union; 

Death makes us thus, some say, and yet 

The process is a painful one. 

Perhaps as beggars give the moon 

I've offered God this gift of me, 
I have my doubts that, late or soon, 

I've ever been an entity; 

Souls daily change and seem to be 
The shiftiest of all that shift — 

This talk is pretty dull, perdie; 
I'll turn me to some other gift. 

Item, a home that bears his name 

I leave unto the god of war; 
I mean I give him perfect claim 

Unto the mirky, blood-red star. 

There let him rule alone, afar 
From all our nations old and new; 

Such distance were efficient bar 
To stop the deeds he's glad to do. 

[ 17] 



TESTAMENT OF WILLIAM WINDUNE 



Brothers and sisters of the earth, 
Small, groping creatures who engage 

In schemes of most aspiring worth, 
I leave you this rich heritage. 
Common to all, that while you age, 

Dwindle and shrivel, you may be 
Equal before the conquering rage 

Of One Eternal Chartless Sea. 

To maids and youths in every land, 

Of smiling face and footstep light, 
I grant you may not understand 

The meaning of time's giddy flight. 

May days be fair and nights be bright. 
May life for you its joys unfold. 

You will need memories in the night 
Of life's decline when you are old. 

O happy young folks, here and there. 
To whom the world is jest and play, 

Who sleep at night without a care 
And laugh with the recurring day, 
I dread to think what heavy way 

You have to tread, what thorns it hath, 
And how your feet will wish to stray 

Back to the sunny, rose-strewn path. 

For all your smiles and pleasant ways, 
For all your bodies lithe and new. 

You cannot halt a whit the days 
That lay their hea\^ load on you. 
'Tis little that a day can do! 

[ 18] 



TESTAMENT OF WILLIAM WINDUNE 



Light as a leaf it falls upon 

Your lives ; yet those the years will strew 
Will crush you with a weight of stone. 

Item, I leave unto the old, 

Blind minds^ dull hearts that cannot feel 
The woe that cometh with the cold 

Of age, the woe that nought can heal. 

I leave them wealth, that great appeal 
Which wins a throng to listen to 

Old stories that time cannot steal. 
Old jokes age thinks as good as new. 

What hope have you, old men and bowed, 

Who sit, all bent, before the fire? 
You take no interest in the crowd. 

Its fresh ideas, its new attire. 

No common human wants inspire 
Your outworn flesh and souls, no whit 

Of tremulous or hot desire 
Shakes you — you have forgotten it. 

Your minds are crowded so with things 

You scarcely know the past has fled; 
The friends who left 'mid sorrowings 

You do not feel are done and dead. 

Old scenes and times revisited 
By journeys into memories' land 

Have tangled so your life's long thread 
That change you cannot understand. 

Item, I leave a verse to you, 

Old men who have not far to go, 

[ 19] 



TESTAMENT OF WILLIAM WINDUNE 



Yea, unto you old women too 

Who once were fair and young, I know, 
A verse to prove the overthrow 

Of all the great the earth has known, 
That, thinking of your way of woe, 

You need not then feel so alone. 

Here followeth the Ballade of Death that Win- 
dune made for old Men and old Women too, 

BALLADE OF DEATH. 

The tender flowers that bloom in spring 

And set the woods and hills a-glow 
Are dead and all their blossoming 

Is gone before the hot winds blow. 

And all that June is proud to grow: 
The rose and more of sweeter breath. 

Are vanished ere the winter's snow — 
There is no conqueror like death. 

The gods are dead, from governing 

Zeus abdicated long ago, 
And Thor has ceased his thundering, 

With Western Folk that bide below 

Osiris sleeps, and Pan is so 
Silent no man discovereth 

His den by wood or water-flow — 
There is no conqueror like death. 

Philip, the Macedonian king, 

Who laid the way for him to go 

[20] 



TESTAMENT OF WILLIAM WINDUNE 



Who wished more worlds for conquering, 

Fell by one never-beaten foe. 

And Hannibal and Scipio — 
All conquerors it conquereth — 

Came to their final overthrow — 
There is no conqueror like death. 

UEnvoi. 

Sweet ladies and strong men also, 

What fear is this your pallor saith? — 

That even you dread death must know? — 
There is no conqueror like death. 

To little children I bequeath 

Indefinite continuance 
Of failure to see underneath 

Their parents' sin and ignorance. 

May never smile nor guilty glance 
Their gentle credence undeceive; 

Quite soon enough they'll view askance 
The world, when childhood's realm they leave. 

You ministers who preach and pray, 

I leave to every one and each 
Ability in every way 

To know and practice what you preach. 

Such gems of thought and flowers of speech 
Our strained, attentive ears receive, 

I will your own beliefs may reach 
The things you ask us to believe. 

[21 ] 



TESTAMENT OF WILLIAM WINDUNE 



To politicians sure and swift 

The popular desire to scent, 
Whose uttermost convictions shift 

Whenever It's expedient, 

Who smell the coming great event 
While busy blocking Progress' way, 

Then claim the whole accomplishment — 
A few sententious words I say. 

Here followeth a few sententious Words addressed 
to Politicians in the Form of a Ballade, 

BALLADE FOR POLITICIANS. 

For maidens' lips that part and pout, 

For eyes that stir as well as see, 
For rains through which the sun comes out 

And gilds the meadow, stream and tree, 

For music that has melody 
All full of mystic, golden notes. 

For Christmas dinners savory — 
For such good things I cast my votes. 

I frown on all the swinish rout 

Who sneer at honest purity. 
Whose cheap derision tries to flout 

All who are clean In some degree. 

For honor, virtue, decency. 
And all of evil's antidotes, 

For God and Immortality — 
For such good things I cast my votes. 

[ 22] 



TESTAMENT OF WILLIAM WINDUNE 



Some angel's wit should bring about 

A record for eternity 
Of all earth's doings while en route 

Across the star-strewn cosmic sea. 

The deeds that mold earth's history, 
The songs that rise in children's throats, 

Both filmed and phonographed should be- 
For such good things I cast my votes. 

UEnvoi. 

Vote-seekers all, give heed to me 

And, 'mid your rush for jobs and groats, 

Observe most reverentially 

For what good things I cast my votes. 

Item, I leave unto the great, 

Wide city of the central plain 
The will and power to expurgate 

Itself of many a nasty stain; 

I trust it may not fail to gain 
Full many glories more than size, 

To help it to them I ordain 
It see itself with others' eyes. 

Item, I leave my Mother Yale 

Stern honor and a stainless name 
To serve her as a coat of mail 

'Gainst all who seek to hurt her fame. 

I leave her zeal as fierce as flame 
To tread the way of light and truth. 

And through immortal age the same 
Great wisdom and immortal youth. 

[23] 



TESTAMENT OF WILLIAM WINDUNE 



To houses that we know have got 
Distinction in great nature's plan, 

In that it long has been their lot 
To shelter most imperial man, 
I leave what monument I can 

Of verse, also a warning give 

That, though they have a lengthy span, 

E'en they do not forever live. 



Here followeth the Ballade of Houses. 



BALLADE OF HOUSES. 

Proud houses with your towers in air. 
With winding road and royal gate. 

In park or lordly thoroughfare. 
Or crowning some superb estate, 
Although you shelter rich and great, 

Be not too lordly, for you must 
Be made aware, or soon or late, 

Time lays all houses in the dust. 

God's houses, you are tall and fair. 

To life eternal consecrate, 
Builded with man's extremest care 

To bear the years' destroying hate. 

But shrines of many an ancient state 
Are ruins and their gods out-thrust 

Can you not see the will of fate: 
Time lays all houses in the dust? 

[24] 



TESTAMENT OF WILLIAM WINDUNE 



Want's houses frail with disrepair, 

With light and air inadequate, 
With dingy hall and dirty stair, 

For wreck you have not long to wait; 

You houses where there congregate 
Men who rent bodies for their lust, 

Soon you will feel the edict's weight: 
Time lays all houses in the dust. 

L'Envoi, 

God's houses none would desecrate. 
Want's houses bare of meat or crust, 

Lust's houses, houses tall and straight — 
Time lays all houses in the dust. 

Sidewalks of stone or of cement 

On busy street or avenue, 
You gain of many an event 

An intimate, peculiar view. 

'Mid your humiliations you 
Deserve some pleasure, therefore I 

Decree each day you see anew 
Beauty and youth go passing by. 

The cripple with beseeching hat 

Finds you a profitable seat; 
You hear the plot, the threat, the chat. 

You feel the city's heart a-beat. 

The snarl and jangle of the street 
Is yours, and yours the laugh and sigh, 

And ever yours the joy to meet 
With youth and beauty passing by. 

[25 ] 



TESTAMENT OF WILLIAM WINDUNE 



When we whose tramp you feel to-day 

Have tottered through our Vale of Tears, 
Humanity's bedecked array 

Will pass above you through the years; 

The crowd that surges, fights and cheers, 
Identical, undoomed to die. 

Will still be yours, while still appears 
Youth in its beauty passing by. 

Windune speaketh of His Mother and maketh a 
Bequest to her. 

Item, to her who brought me forth 

In mother's pain and mother's love. 
Who gave my genius to the earth 

(Small gratitude it shows thereof), 

I grant she may have griefs above 
Each interested assignee, 

I have no fear nor question of 
The sureness of this legacy. 

For she who, 'neath Death's threatening wings. 
Gave me the Way of Life to tread, 

Who weariness and sufferings 
Bore cheerfully, uncomforted 
By him who quickly joined the dead. 

Can hope for only new distress 
Instead of comfort, and instead 

Of cheer I cause her loneliness. 



Such is the fate of all who age; 
They ever have been left alone. 

[ 26] 



TESTAMENT OF WILLIAM WINDUNE 

New scenes arc dropped upon the stage 
And scenes of eld are all unknown. 
Youth claims a drama quite his own 

That each must aid in or attend, 
And those the years have overgrown 

Can only have the past for friend. 

Now Windune speaketh of his own Lady. 

O Lady I have loved so long, 
Beloved of the vanished days, 

Sweet inspiration of the song 

By which I seek, in fruitless ways, 
To tell thy grace, so past all praise 

It must be pleasing e'en to God, 
I leave thee all my lover's lays, 

Particularly this ballade: 



Here followeth the Ballade of Windune*s Sweet- 
heart. 

BALLADE OF MY SWEETHEART. 

A golden pen and ink of gold 

And golden thoughts should rightly be 
With him who dares to be so bold 

As write a poem meant for thee. 

And who am I who make so free 
To dabble in the poet's art 

And sing of thee a melody. 
Sweetheart sweetheart? 

[27] 



TESTAMENT OF WILLIAM WINDUNE 



The winter winds shriek with the cold, 

The snow is piled above the knee 
On either side the paths. Behold, 

The icicles on eave and tree. 

Then look within my heart and see 
The fire that never will depart, 

Because you vowed you loved but me, 
Sweetheart, (my very own) sweetheart. 

A golden pen no man could hold 

Worthy to write thine high degree 
Of goodness, how thy days enfold 

The sum of love and purity. 

No ink of gold could faithfully 
The total of my love impart. 

How long I've loved thee utterly. 
Sweetheart, (I have been true) sweetheart. 

UEnvot. 

Lady, how quickly the years flee 

And many friends must weep and part, 

(We must from some) but never we, 
Sweetheart^ (forever true!) sweetheart! 

O lady, you have been so good, 

You will not laugh at all my pain? 

"He did the very best he could," 
Say to yourself, should you remain 
When I have joined the ghostly train 

And lie within my clay-girt hole. 
And you discover we were twain 

Who thought we were a single soul. 

[28 ] 



TESTAMENT OF WILLIAM WINDUNE 



Dear lady, when I think of how 
The years have fled for thee and me, 

I am so very glad that thou 
Art still so full of gaiety, 
Art still so fair, so good to see, 

Still eager as thou wert before 

For all good things earth holds in fee 

And all that life has got in store. 

Best take our pleasure while we can 
And love as strongly as we may; 

The love of woman and of man, 
That lives for each one rosy day, 
Is like the singing of a lay 

That pierced one so as forth it fled 
But, after it has sunk away. 

It is no more than any dead. 



Windune maketh a Bequest to his Children. 

Sometimes a man grown old and weak 

Even forgets the name he bore 
And heeds not when a friend may speak 

That word he guarded well of yore; 

So, since such fate may lie in store 
For me, my children, I commit 

My name to you to use once more 
When I have quite forgotten it. 



[29] 



TESTAMENT OF WILLIAM WINDUNE 



Windune turneth to his nanut Town and maketh 
a few Bequests, 

Item, unto my native town 

I leave the honor of my birth; 
Also I give it such renown 

As is its share upon the earth. 

And some few citizens of worth 
I would not leave without bequest; 

Their secret wish or aching dearth 
May be allayed by what I test. 

Item, to Doctor Frank Magee 

I leave, to keep the wolf outdoors, 
A liberal annuity 

Levied upon his creditors. 

A man whose ample nature soars 
High over thoughts of paltry gold. 

Merits some comfort-guarantors 
Against the time when he is old. 

Here follow eth the Ballade of Hoarded Wealth, 
addressed to Doctor Frank Magee. 

BALLADE OF HOARDED WEALTH. 

Though we have little, you and I, 

We love a rich, luxurious air; 
We do not hesitate to buy, 

On credit, all we can or dare. 

Oft the lean, foot-sore millionaire 

[30] 



TESTAMENT OF WILLIAM WINDUNE 



Has sneered as in our cars we rolled. 

We thought, as we observed him there, 
Death- robs the richest of his gold. 

Do rows of figures satisfy 

The stomach? Such were gloomy fare! 
Do coupons make the heart leap high 

As friendly faces everywhere? 

For present pleasures we declare! 
Too soon one lies beneath the mold, 

Gone buildings, bonds, stocks, every share- 
Death robs the richest of his gold. 

Through years of want the frugal try 
To store up wealth for future wear; 

But oft before the time comes nigh 
Which they decreed for pleasure, care 
And age and sickness, unaware, 

Have gained an all-tenacious hold; 
Worn-out they see in their despair, 

Death robs the richest of his gold. 

UEnvoi. 

Doctor, you do not hoard nor spare, 

Knowing that rich, like poor, grow cold, 

And, willy nil, are hurried where 
Death robs the richest of his gold. 

Item, I leave to him who lost. 
This winter past, his darling son 

(What else in life he treasured most 
He would have given to save this one) 

[31] 



TESTAMENT OF WILLIAM WINDUNE 



No gold nor wealth — they ne'er have done 
A father's heart much good in pain — 

But this, addressed to him alone, 
Trusting it is not writ in vain: 

Heie followeth a Roundel for W. K. in his 
Sorrow. 

ROUNDEL FOR W. K. IN HIS SORROW. 

Without thy son the days turn o'er 
Like empty pages; nights are one 

Long, sleepless, wretched sorrow-store 
Without thy son. 

Pure as he was I know of none. 

None was so true and sweet before — 
His smile was welcome as the sun. 

Bereaved, I wish thee comfort, for 
Thy broken life must sweetlier run; 

Thou knowst, at last, thou'lt be no more 
Without thy son. 

Item, unto the magnates that 

On funeral fare are living high, 
Who, selling burial lots, wax fat, 

And fatter caring for them, I 

Leave an old coin, to typify 
Their graft, snatched from a dead man's e'e; 

Perhaps 'twill help to satisfy 
Their ravenous rapacity. 

[32] 



TESTAMENT OF WILLIAM WINDUNE 



Little the dead In Woodcrest know 

What burden falls on son or heir; 
They cannot answer, yes or no, 

To swollen bills for little care. 

"Finance" is none of their affair! 
The little griefs and troubles too 

Of us who breathe the vital air, 
Are now no longer their ado. 

There on the windy river-bluff, 

Laid in the sticky yellow clay, 
They seem of very gentle stuff 

Who were full hot in former day. 

The one equality know they: 
The wealthy in his tomb ha'- not 

A whit more happiness to-day 
Than John Doe in the public lot. 

If we be rich and strong and tall 

Or poor and wasting in a bed, 
Let us rejoice we live at all 

And do not furnish worms their bread. 

Yea, think on what poor Villon said, 
"Better to live and rags to wear 

Than to have been a lord, and dead 
Rot in a splendid sepulchre." 

Each day brings forth an added grief 
Or some new task with which to cope. 

We long for ultimate relief, 

To brush aside these cares; we hope 
To reach a land of grassy slope 

[33] 



TESTAMENT OF WILLIAM WINDUNE 



And sun, where woes are left behind. 

Ere such we gain the earth will ope 
For us — as these, deaf, dumb and blind. 



Here Windune entereth upon his Conclusion. 



CONCLUSION. 

O little gnats of flickering breath! 

Since the first parts of this I penned 
My Uncle lost his fight with death, 

My Aunt, too, came unto her end. 

Against old age can none defend! 
His stomach failed him without pain, 

Her heart no more its charge could tend- 
Worn out by eighty years of strain. 

They both have reached the final stage 
Which is the goal of low and high^ 

Where there is nought of youth or age — 
And may be nought of "it" or '*!." 
Though, haply, de^ith doth unify 

Their spirits, haply it will keep 
Their souls as ages hurry by 

In sweetness of a dreamless sleep. 

None knows Death's sudden, ghastly ways 
Or what fell time he will arrive, 

Although determined are the days 
We have to spend on earth, alive. 

[ 34] 



TESTAMENT OF WILLIAM WINDUNE 



What use to labor and to thrive, 
To win what race, to gain what prize, 

If, flushed with triumph, while we strive 
We meet Death's awful, placid eyes? 

No doubt a person's term of life 

Depends, as does its good and ill, 
Upon the knowledge that his wife 

May have of culinary skill. 

Poor man has neither time nor will 
His stomach's fare to regulate; 

It's luck if he can pay the bill — 
The rest he's got to leave to fate. 

Since the first parts of this I penned 

My thirty-second year has fled. 
And as I bring this to its end 

I write "my thirty-third" instead. 

Time in his dizzy whirl has sped 
And drunkenly his days has flung. 

Changing the living to the dead 
And making old folks out of young. 

Now, Reader, if you come to this 

Where I would make an end of ends, 
Perhaps I do not hope amiss 

That we may go our ways as friends. 

Let your good nature make amends 
For all the faults that crowd my verse ; 

Wish me such fortune as fate sends — 
Be sure I shall not wish you worse. 

[35] 



TESTAMENT OF WILLIAM WINDUNE 



Here follow eth the Ballade that Windune made 

by Way of Ending, concerning his Verse, 

his Tests and his Jims. 

WINDUNE'S EXPLANATORY BALLADE. 

As to my verse, I know it's lame ; 

I cannot go the fiery pace 
That Byron went, nor light the flame 

That Swinburne flung in the world's face. 

I would a very modest place 
Amid the poets' gatherings; 

My own small thoughts I try to trace — 
I do not seek for higher things. 

As to my tests, if your own name 

Gains neither gift nor any praise, 
I ask you openly what claim 

You have that I must needs erase? 

My poor bequests were my disgrace 
Compared with millionaires' or kings*; 

I only hope they fit the case — 
I do not seek for higher things. 

As to the final goal or aim 

I strive for ere the years efface 
My little light, unknown to fame, 

That sheds its beams a narrow space. 

It is to join the endless chase 
Pursuing truth with eager wings. 

To raise the lowly and the base — 
I do not seek for higher things. 

[36] 



TESTAMENT OF WILLIAM WINDUNE 



U Envoi. 

Friends, after life's impatient race, 

False quests and barren offerings, 
I hope to enter in God's grace — 

I do not seek for higher things. 

Here endeth the Testament of William Windune, 



[ 37] 



OTHER POEMS. 



WIND OVERHEAD 



WIND OVERHEAD. 

The wind goes roaring overhead 

And the great, gaunt branches snap and sway 
At this sorrowful end of an empty day — 

Some of us live hut most are dead. 

Here we sit hugging the end of day, 

Watching the red West bubble and burn 
With a glory of gold we cannot earn, 

With a flicker of fire that fades away, 

Watching the great, warm sun expire 

In the hideous night that streams sinfully by 
While the day we loved slips out with a sigh, 

Wondering, each with a brain a-fire, 
Which of us here will be next to die. 

The great wind swelling overhead 
Carries the night in its terrible grip. 
While a sentence hides beneath each lip — 

Some of us live but most are dead. 

We belong to that pitiful sect 

That is subject to chance's wild caprice, 

To the ravage of years and the plot of disease. 

We are creation's most select, 

The acme or the apogee 

Of Nature's infinite brotherhood; 

Ours is the knowledge of evil and good. 

Since Eve did eat of that mystical tree! 

(And the fruit was death in that orchard-wood.) 

[41] 



WIND OVERHEAD 



The black limbs clutching the skies overhead 
Must have been born in a giant birth — 
\]p to the heavens — deep in the earth — 

Fart with the living and part with the dead, 

"What does it mean to die?" one said; 

"Is it to rest in perfect peace? 

Will the body live again as trees 
Or flesh, and the soul be totally dead? 
Is there a soul of any sort 

Save that quintessence of flesh, the brain, 

Which is just as subject to change and pain 
As the legs and arms and as much the sport 

Of Fate's abuse and of Death's disdain?" 

Into the night one thrusts his head. 

Saying, "The wind grows hungry again. 
Sweeping the immemorial plain. 

Searching the living and stilling the dead" 

One with white hair and face grown grey 
Shiftily states that there may be hope 
Of a future life of limited scope 

Through a separation of spirit and clay. 

And spirit, perhaps, in a manner merged 
With a great, composite, general soul 
Which is all in all of the Cosmic Whole — 

A union with God, as some have urged, 
With man extinct in that final goal. 



[42] 



WIND OVERHEAD 



What is it worth, says the wind overhead. 
Screaming like myriad souls in pain. 
Nirvana-nullity to attain. 

If the individual lieth dead? 

Off in the distance a tolling bell 

Swings on the wind like the pulse of a world; 

The bayonetteers of the night are hurled 
Forward fearfully, fast and well. 
The West is black and the East the same, 

The satirical stars are hidden from sight — 

It is better so, for their hostile light 
Would burn to the quick with a caustic flame — 

White as the leper's sores are white. 

The wind never ceases overhead 

The fatal, menacing message it cries 
To the mind that trembles, the flesh that dies- 
Some live but all, in the end, are dead. 



[43 ] 



MY LADY S LIPS 



MY LADY'S LIPS. 

Red lips my lips have clung unto 
Until your blood had vanished quite 
And left you pale with pink and white, 

Young lips whose life is ever new, 

Whose sweet desire is never done, 
Consider all the amorous lips 
Whose sweetness now no lover sips 

Beneath the hot and fervid sun. 

Hot lips that seem almost my own, 
Cling closer, for the evil night 
Will come to stifle our delight; 

Lips that are soft rose-petals blown 

Where winds in balmy skies expire. 
Kiss me as only young flesh can, 
For the night cometh when no man 

Can kiss or clasp his heart's-desire. 

Yea, straining lips, we cannot doubt 
That you and I may come to be 
Dust the street winds blow carelessly 

Before the sprinklers get about. 



[44] 



A PRECAUTIONARY MEASURE 



A PRECAUTIONARY MEASURE. 

Suggested to my Lady before she takes up 
her Residence in the Spirit-World. 

Perhaps when you reside above 

With saints and I with sinners dwell. 

You'll stop your golden song of love 
An hour, to think of me in Hell. 

"Perhaps he might have sung as well 

As any seraph here with me, 
Perhaps he shakes the depths of Hell 

With song of singular melody." 

Such may your thoughts be; you may say, 

"If I but make a sacrifice 
And go to meet him half the way, 

My song may gain some fire from his. 

"Some of its burning interest 

May help the song in Heaven as well, 
And I, who thrive among the blest. 

Have felt so sad for him in Hell, 

"And fain would meet with him again 

To give a little joy anew." 
Angel, there is no meeting then 

But a deep gulf between us two. 



[45 ] 



A PRECAUTIONARY MEASURE 



So while upon the earth you dwell 

In a Heaven of joy, in this tangible star, 

You had better visit my terrene Hell 
Before that gulf has come as a bar. 

You had better take some fire of my song 
For your heavenly dwelling that is to be, 

Than strain your ears near that gulf of wrong 
For a snatch of my singular melody. 



[46] 



FEVERISH MAN 



FEVERISH MAN. 

Man thinks himself final, eternal, 
Believing the elements love him, 

While around him are forces supernal 
And the stars may be laughing above him. 

Feverish man, 

Engrossed in his planning and straining, 
His loving and stealing and gaining, 
Speeds through his span. 

So busy with seeding and reaping 
He lives, that he leaves unregarded 
The many forms nature discarded 
In aeons of genital creeping; 

He reads not the moon's message clear 
Whose white face is paler than fear 
In feverish man. 

Feverish man. 

Consumed with his wilful endeavor 
Presumes his way forward forever 
Passes all ban. 

Unthinking that changes colossal 

Will reck not of him and his pleading, 
That earth growing colder, unheeding. 
Will roll him with coal-field and fossil, 
Untouched by the endless desire, 
The pulse-beats, the maddening fire, 
Of feverish man, 

[47] 



FEVERISH MAN 



The great, stalwart suns will be swinging 
In their courses unheeded, unheeding, 

The strange sound of spheres will be ringing, 
The nebulae twisting and breeding. 



[48 ] 



IMPARTIAL 



IMPARTIAL. 

Our hearts rejoice at skies of blue, 
At sparkling sun and balmy air 

When springtime wakes the earth anew — 
To Him is neither foul nor fair. 

But when the heavens overhead, 

Corpse-color, drip with ooze, we scowl, 

Thinking of dreary things and dead — 
To Him is neither fair nor foul. 

We have our standards ethical 
Of manhood and of womanhood 

(Unconscious of the cause of all) — 
To Him is neither bad nor good. 

The harlot and the murderer 

To us (though also strange and sad) 

Are wicked, loathsome, sinister — 
To Him is neither good nor bad. 

Through summer days of sun and rain 
Men wait till certain signs are seen 

Then reap, for human use, the grain — 
To Him is neither ripe nor green. 

The fruit above the weathered wall 
Shows sunburnt cheek or crimson stripe 

Ere we anticipate its fall — 

To Him is neither green nor ripe. 

[49] 



IMPARTIAL 



Through microscopes we strain our eyes 

Atom or germ to designate — 
Infinitesimal in size — 

To Him is neither small nor great. 

While from another glass in awe 
We turn and in our wonder call 

Unmentionable what we saw — 
To Him is neither great nor small. 

Life's blessing lies in golden hair 

And lissome youth we oft have sung 

And age means death and dark despair — 
To Him is neither old nor young. 

Astronomers find ancient, worn, 

Wandering worlds long dead and cold, 

Then nebulae or worlds unborn — 
To Him is neither young nor old. 



[ 50] 



YALE REVISITED 



YALE REVISITED. 

Mother, the years have been so long 
And worthless things have laid me low. 
I thought to place upon thy brow 

Sweet garlands of immortal song. 

But now the hands that dared aspire 
To bless thee with such gifts as these 
Can scarcely reach unto thy knees 

To clasp thy robe with palms of fire. 

Yea, for my hands are hot with shame 
That I who hoped for things so high 
Am fallen in such a way that I 

Can add no honor to thy name. 

Thy sturdy sons in victory 

Have brought thee many a goodly gift 
And paid with products of their thrift 

The ancient debts they owed to thee. 

But I, whose debt is very great, 
Have not the smallest gift to bring 
Of fame or golden offering. 

But come, a poor unfortunate, 

Whose tongue must ever beg for more 
Of strength and guidance, ask of thee 
To steer me o'er the weary sea 

To some new haven on the shore. 

[ 51 ] 



YALE REVISITED 



Mother, I am not fit to cope 
With giants of this modern strife, 
So I have lost my grip on life 

And lost my courage and my hope. 

The weight of failure overwhelms 
My heart and makes me turn my face 
Homeward and ask thee of thy grace 

To shelter me beneath the elms. 



[ 52] 



IN AN OLD MAY 



IN AN OLD MAY. 

Launcelot sings: 
Gold hair is bright in youth and May 

But soon the winter turns it white. 
Sweet love, so gold is yours to-day 

I would God never sent the night; 
But while the day is in your hair 
Let me be strong and you be fair. 

Guenevere sings: 
A little time in youth and play 

For lady fair and lordly knight ! 
True love, so strong you seem to-day 

I would God never sent the night; 
Would day were many lifetimes long 
While I am fair and you are strong. 

Launcelot sings: 
A little time are lovers gay 

And all the world is lit with light; 
Gold love, so bright it is to-day 

I would God never sent the night, 
Would all things ever golden were, 
I ever strong, you ever fair. 

Guenevere sings: 
Great lord, my beauty will decay 

And years will quite destroy your might; 
Howe'er we love the sweet To-day 

And wish God never sent the Night, 
Years hence alone in tale and song 
Shall I be fair and you be strong. 

[ 53 ] 



A SUMMER DAY 



A SUMMER DAY. 

Somehow ft seemed the open air 

Might cleanse her of her first disgrace. 
And so she found a sunny place 

And stretched herself in silence there. 

Her body she had loved to touch 
And tend and gaze on and control, 
And even her inmost private soul 

Felt soiled with an enduring smutch. 

Although there had seemed nothing true 
But passion when she yielded, yet 
She shut her eyes to help forget 

And — lest the sun might stare her through. 

Then, with a little moan of pain, 
She turned upon her side and saw 
The hot, grey clouds that strove to draw 

Rare moisture for the blessed rain. 

She felt the burnt grass with her palm 
And thought that it was blasted too 
And yearned for rain or healing dew 

As she for death or changeless calm. 

The very air seemed choked with shame. 
In the high trees no frail leaf stirred, 
Only a little scarlet bird 

Shot through the air, a shaft of flame. 

[ 54] 



A SUMMER DAY 



Hearing at length a whistle shrill, 

She loosed her clenched hands from the dirt 
And wearily arranged her skirt 

As he came slouching up the hill. 



[55] 



TEMPUS OMNIA VINCIT 



TEMPUS OMNIA VINCIT. 

Beloved, all In all to me, 
Dearer than sight of sun and sea 

And leaves of spring and leaves of fall, 
Whose little mouth was made to kiss — 
Sweeter than honey-comb It Is — 

How can we stand against it all? 

How can we put our little sweet 
Against the worlds beneath our feet 

And many million worlds above? 
In love a little day we spend 
But they will crush us in the end 

For all our little strength Is love. 

How can the feeble shore withstand 
The wash of the sea against the land? 

The wash of time the earth will mar 
And change it to some other thing, 
And we who kiss and love and sing 

Will be the dust of a dead star. 

Beloved, all in all to me, 
Dearer than sunlight on the sea, 

Clasp both thine arms about me tight, 
Press to my lips thy clinging lips — 
Sweeter than honey the bee sips — 

That we may both forget the Night. 



[ 56] 



ACCEPTABLE IN HIS SIGHT 



ACCEPTABLE IN HIS SIGHT. 

God has not seen a sight more fair, 
My lady^ than your wistful face 

Crowned with a halo of gold hair 
That glorifies the dreariest place. 

What is it you are longing for? 

What Is your mouth so wistful of ? 
It seems your heart Is straining sore 

For something — Is it God or love? 

If God has looked upon the earth 
While many million years have rolled 

Since Its hot, vaporous time of birth. 
His eyes must now be very old. 

And it must be so good to Him, 
After the sights that meet His gaze 

Of horror and hate and famine grim, 
To see your gentle face and ways. 

To see you doing His commands, 
Spreading His sweetness everywhere, 

Living as If His loving hands 
Were lightly laid upon your hair. 

O lady of the shining face, 
Is all that you are wistful of 

Simply the spreading of His grace — 
Or do you yearn for human love? 

[57] 



ON THE HILLSIDE 



ON THE HILLSIDE. 

Waken her, dear, as we used to do, 

Calling, "Sweet, sweet," as she lay asleep ; 
This morn when the branch-buds burst and leap 

Certainly she will waken too. 

She who was motion, life and song. 

Now, as the cordial sunbeams play 

Cheerfully over the grass to-day. 
Surely can not be quiet long. 

Let us await till day be fled, 

By this grassy hill, her coming through, 

Praying to see those eyes of blue 
Shining out of that curled gold head. 



[58] 



LUX EXSTINCTA 



LUX EXSTINCTA. 

The light of heaven in her face 
Illumed the mirky way I fared — 
She seemed a little, golden-haired 

Angel endowed with God's own grace. 

Her childish ways were my delight; 
Out of my depths I smiled to say 
That surely God had made the day 

For her, although for me the night. 

Her little body was not made 
For pain or any evil thing 
Such as that fearful withering 

Which left her great blue eyes afraid. 

— And how with all my worthless might 
I prayed her light should never wane 
And whispered oft and oft again, 

"For her the day, for me the night!" 

Yet though we labored, prayed and cried, 
The piercing pain that made her gasp 
Gathered her child's heart in its grasp, 

And, with a little shriek, she died. 

At first I had no word to say ; 

I could not feel she would not come 
To fight the shadows of my home 

And smooth my troubles all away. 

[ 59] 



LUX EXSTINCTA 



But now I know that there will be 
Sunlight no more upon my way, 
And sometimes mockingly I say, 

'Tor her what night, what day for me?" 

What sorrow would God's great heart nurse 
If, of the countless worlds a-fire, 
He saw the last huge sun expire 

And darkness whelm the universe! 



[ 60] 



MOTHERS SONG 



MOTHER'S SONG. 

From The Ephemera. 

Sweet little life, sweet part of me. 

That makes me mother more than wife, 

My heart is all bound up in thee, 
Sweet little life. 

Sweet little eyes that cannot see 

The woe of this great world and wise, 

I would that ye might ever be 
Sweet little eyes. 

Sweet little mouth that holds in fee 
My being's best to slake thy drouth, 

Take what thou wilt of me, of me. 
Sweet little mouth. 



[61] 



A BALLAD OF JOHN DAVIDSON 



A BALLAD OF JOHN DAVIDSON. 

Out of a grimy Scottish town 

Where Holy Writ was daily bread, 

Up to the great, grey Babylon 
With heart a-fire the rebel fled. 

With genius piercing through the mirk, 
Gasping, he saw the secret plan. 

The beauteous horror of God's work, 
The glory and the doom of man. 

The gloomy hopefulness of doubt 

His black conviction hurled behind — 

While Heaven and Hell were tossed about 
In windy caverns of his mind. 

Yet times there were when even he 

Breathed joy from every springtime flower; 

On summer nights he loved to see 
The stars burst in a silver shower. 

The bitter magic of his soul 

Transmuted words to poets' gold; 

As swift as light from source to goal 
His thought in fearful vision rolled. 

Although he dipped his pen in flame 
But little bread and meat he earned; 

The fever shook his burning frame. 
His lips with cynic laughter burned. 

[ 62] 



A BALLAD OF JOHN DAVIDSON 



His blood was brazen fire within, 
His heart a molten mass of fire, 

A field of fever was his skin 
And every nerve a singing wire. 

In Hinnom's Vale, a man accursed, 
He delved in frantic depths of pain ; 

Sometimes it seemed his skull would burst 
With the fierce pressure of his brain. 

Sometimes at Ancient Wrong he railed 
And his weak, zealous arrows hurled ; 

Sometimes his heart on fire exhaled 
Sweet incense for a sinful world. 

In a red riot Space and Time 

With bludgeon blows his soul assailed; 
At times his hands were black with slime 

And then the sun before him paled. 

He cried, when twisting with the strain 
That seemed about to burst its bars, 

"If poetry is born of pain 

My verse should scrape the nadir stars. 

"The purest notes that critics hail 
Out of some broken heart are torn — 

The swan at death, the nightingale 
Sings best, pierced by a thorn." 



[63] 



A BALLAD OF JOHN DAVIDSON 



He struck his brow, he clenched his teeth, 
And spoke through lips in pain compressed, 

"What matter one more laurel wreath, 
Thrown on the dung-hill with the rest!" 

Sick of the Babylonian stews. 

Of dwelling with the living dead, 

Crushed by the drain of wound and bruise. 
From Babylon the victim fled. 

Hoping for solace and relief. 

For Lethe from Fate's steely sport, 

He sought to bury thought and grief 
In quiet of a Cornish port. 

Yet little different he found 

Huge London and minute Penzance, 

When all the wild world whirling 'round 
Could break no bonds of circumstance. 

Flee as he would, his fiery mind 

Fled with him ; goaded night and day, 

He could not leave himself behind 
Nor turn Death's stealthy step away. 

"Why live in Hell," he questioned, "why 
Not try the brave, old-fashioned crime? 

It is not difficult to die 

And cheat my snarling captor. Time. 



[64] 



A BALLAD OF JOHN DAVIDSON 



"If life snuffs out, at least I gain 
A quick escape from horror's mesh; 

And there's a blessed end of pain 
In being nothing but dead flesh." 

Then suddenly he disappeared, 

And it was thought that he had died 

Seeking the nothingness he feared, 
Until one day the restless tide 

Bore, bobbing up and down upon 
Its breathing breast, a sodden shape. 

'Twas he whose hair had brushed the sun, 

Whose hands had wrapped the stars with crape. 

"Poor Davidson!" the papers said; 

"His corpse was picked up in the sea; 
His books, not very widely read, 

Are marked by their intensity." 

In some fantastic spot of space 

Suited to that perfervid soul 
Does he view cosmos face to face 

And watch the tumbling aeons roll ? 

Perhaps with transcendental sight 

He sees, in fringes of the sky. 
Old suns go reeling into night. 

Great winds of chaos billowing by. 



[65] 



A BALLAD OF JOHN DAVIDSON 



With genius piercing through the mirk, 
Haply he grasps an inner plan, 

The mighty marvel of God's work 
And some escape for fruitless man. 

At least that brazen blood within, 

That heart that flamed all white with fire, 

Are cool as is that fevered skin 
And quiet as those nerves of wire. 

At least, though he be putrid meat, 
He knows no horror nor distress. 

E'en though he tread with ghostly feet 
Pale seas and shores of Nothingness. 

Though earth applaud and critics praise, 
Though many of his books be sold, 

He recks no more of nights or days — 
The flame is quenched, the ash is cold. 



[ 66 1 



WINTER 



WINTER. 

One speaks: 
We sleep within soft sheets, we lie 

In comfortable warmth, nor weep 
That winter crawls so slowly by — 

Knowing nought else so good as sleep. 

Another answers: 
But what of those who, thin and cold. 

Huddle in doorways in the rain. 
Or envy jewelers the gold 

Fenced from them by a window-pane? 

Who knows what squalor they are in? 

Who knows what horrid haunts they keep, 
What woe they feel from want or sin, 

Within what sheets they go to sleep? 

The bitter wind that shrieks and moans 
About our houses, gust on gust. 

Cuts through their garments to the bones 
With savage glee at every thrust. 

And what of those who, finely dressed. 
All winter long lie side by side, 

Arrayed in all their Sunday-best, 

As a bridegroom that greets his bride? 

Is it not very cold for them. 

Yea, for the poor dead ladies too 

Who do not sit to knit or hem 
In warm rooms as they used to do? 



WINTER 



Though we who sleep in tender sheets 
May never feel the bite of cold, 

Nor starve for want of sumptuous meats, 
Nor covet any other's gold, 

Yet in some winter we shall lie 
Superbly dressed and side by side, 

But not with joy or longing sigh 

A bridegroom has who greets the bride; 

Yea, without sound of song or mirth, 
Or savory smells of Living Land, 

Or taste of all the sweets of earth. 
Or sight of face or touch of hand. 



[ 68] 



ODE TO G^A 



ODE TO G^A. 

O mother, marvellous mother, 
Out of you, the eternal source, 

With many a lesser brother 
Came man, in his due course; 

Out of you plain and river. 

Mountains v^^here white streams quiver, 

Forests the forked fires sliver, 
And every form of force. 

Born of a fierce communion, 

Daughter of Time and Space, 
Whose vast, primeval union 

Bore the w^orld-Titan race, 
After your mighty yearning, 
Such dire and desperate burning. 
How can you now be turning 
So bland and bright a face? 

Wild fruit of fiery passion, 

You blew and shrunk and glowed. 

Reeling in drunken fashion 
On the celestial road. 

From film to fire transmuted. 

On chaos' whirlwinds bruited. 

How can you now be suited 
For a frail child's abode? 

O mother, ancient mother. 

Your youth has long been spent. 

Ages your white fires smother, 
You smile in fond content. 

[ 69] 



ODE TO G^A 



Your surface basks so sweetly, 
So gently and so meetly, 
You have forgot completely 

Whither your flame days went. 

Your breasts have suckled nations 
That grew to glorious might. 

Then, swept from rent foundations, 
Plunged to an utter night. 

Wild winds wail Susa's story. 

Dead books tell Athens' glory, 

And ruins dank and hoary 
Mark Babylon the bright. 

Within your womb that bore them 

Lie the colossal dead; 
Desire can not restore them. 

Nor Battle bright and red, 
Nor Art the ones who sought her, 
Nor Fame the great who bought her, 
Nor love of wind and water 

Those whom Poseidon led. 

Grave minds with wisdom gifted 

Say man will stay not still, 
But, through the years uplifted, 

A perfect plan fulfill, 
To stand at last not mirthless, 
But flawless, radiant, earth-less, 
Purged of all waste and worthless 
Dead leaves of Igdrasil. 

[70] 



ODE TO G^A 



But you, O mother mournful, 

Must know these thoughts are vain; 
Exulting man grown scornful, 

Waxing — will also wane! 
When your hot heart grows colder, 
Art, virtue, mind will moulder, 
All man's might fearful, bolder, 
Will fight the cold and pain. 

Then, toy of blind conditions. 
Your petted child will cease, 

Conquered by harsh transitions, 
Lastly in silent peace. 

Instead of height supernal. 

Life perfect, bright, eternal, 

Turned in your course diurnal 
With mountains and with seas. 

Souls without name or number, 

Unharassed, undistressed. 
Will lie in utter slumber. 

One in that final rest; 
And guardian gods whose keeping 
Was prayed with groans and weeping 
Will also then be sleeping 

Soundly as curst or blest. 

Hot hearts that burst with beating, 
Cold hearts no grief could mar. 

Brains that grew white with heating. 
Soft flesh without a scar, 

[71] 



ODE TO GJEA 



Will He in one united — 
The fortunate, the slighted, 
The righteous, the benighted — 
Dust of a dying star. 

Lonely and cold and rigid 

You will tour the tenuous waves 
Of ether frail and frigid. 

Your dead breast full of graves; 
Thus will your heat have ended, 
All life that j^ou befriended — 
Your offspring — long since wended 
Where nothing damns or saves. 



[72] 



